The Beginning of Romance
by timespaceandabluebox
Summary: How my favorite ships begin. See inside for details. Rated M for safety. Pure fluffiness. New: Morene! Previously, Johnlock, Mormor and Mystrade. Read and review please. Hugs and kisses!
1. Johnlock

**A/N: This is a bunch of one shots of how my favorite ships got together. Please let me know whether or not you like it (this is my first proper fic). This hasn't been brit-picked or beta-d, so please excused the typos.**

"I'm not gay!" John protested. And suddenly, he questioned that.

He was telling yet another waiter that he and Sherlock were not, in fact, gay partners. John had encountered many people who assumed that Sherlock was his boyfriend, and John often found himself loudly countering that suggestion.

But recently, John had been questioning the absolute truth of that statement. He knew he wasn't 100% gay – he loved women and everything about them – but he had to admit that there was something strangely alluring about his aloof flatmate.

"Sherlock, why do people always think I'm gay?" John turned to look at his friend, who was, as usual, not paying attention to his companion.

Sherlock looked away from the couple sitting three tables down. "A variety of reasons. Would you like me to list them all?"

John sighed. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock was deliberately trying to be insulting or if it was just an accident. "No, just why that guy thinks I am."

"Because we are two obviously unattached males going out alone together, and because we act as though we have been together for an extended period of time. Thus they make the obvious and logical assumption that we are a couple and therefore, that you are gay." Sherlock returned his attention to the couple, trying to deduce exactly how many times the man had cheated on his wife.

"What do you mean, logical assumption? I'm not gay!"

As Sherlock opened his mouth to reply – no doubt with something insulting – his phone buzzed. It was a text from Lestrade, apparently spelling out a new case. "This one's a ten, John! We must go immediately!" Sherlock paused only to through some money on the table and to wait for John to get his coat on before striding out of the restaurant.

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

Three days later, John finally had some time to stop and think. He was happily making himself a cuppa – glad that the case was successfully over without either of them being injured – when Sherlock walked into the kitchen dressed in only a thin sheet. John couldn't help but stare. He wanted to tear that sheet off and. . . . We it didn't matter what he wanted, because first of all, Sherlock was married to his work, and second of all, John still thought he probably wasn't really all that interested in shagging blokes. John hadn't thought about his sexuality – God, he sounded like a teenage girl looking for attention – since the case began, but now that the case was solved, the question lingered in his mind: could he be bi, or whatever it was called?

"Sherlock, put on some bloody clothing. Mrs. Hudson could walk in!" John had to try very hard to keep from blushing. This was even worse than a normal crush – even though it definitely wasn't a crush, not at all – because Sherlock could practically read his mind just by looking at him.

Fortunately for John, Sherlock seemed engrossed in a book about bees and was paying no attention to his friend. "Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's until next Friday."

"Yeah, well, put on something anyway. Just pants if you want. Anything!" After Sherlock made it clear that he was under no circumstances going to put on clothing, John rushed off, completely forgetting about his tea. He didn't trust his body or his mind to not embarrass him more than he probably already had.

He needed . . . a cold shower or something. How could he fancy Sherlock, the human icicle? And more importantly (in John's mind) a man? An attractive man, with those eyes and those cheekbones and those think lips just asking to be kissed . . . John shook himself. That was no way to think about a friend, especially a friend who showed, if it were possible, negative interest in being his boyfriend. That was creepy and it felt almost predatory. John never wanted to hurt Sherlock. Despite himself, he loved the awkward, occasionally rude man – in a completely platonic, nonsexual, I-definitely-don't-want-to-shag-him kind of way.

There was a knock at his bedroom door. "Come in."

"You forgot to finish making yourself tea." Sherlock held out the steaming cup to John.

"Erm. . . . Thank you." John was surprised by Sherlock's kindness (although he had been more considerate lately) and he licked his lips as he tried to figure out Sherlock's intentions.

Sherlock stared distractedly at John's lips for a second, and then awkwardly walked away, as though he didn't know how to react to John's gratitude. John couldn't help but notice that the sheet gave him a rather fine view of Sherlock's ass . . . better not think about that now. . . .

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"John! Get me my phone!"

John groaned. Sherlock was so demanding. But what could John do but help the brilliant man? "Where is it?"

"Next to my sulfuric acid in the kitchen!"

Of course Sherlock would make John get it, even though he was much closer to his phone. John was in his bedroom, for God's sake, and Sherlock was experimenting in the kitchen.

"Okay, coming!" John walked to the kitchen slowly in the hopes of aggravating Sherlock. No such luck for John. Sherlock was absorbed in his experiment on appeared to be human fingernails. John sighed when he saw that Sherlock's phone was literally within his reach. "Here," he said as he handed the phone to him angrily.

"By the way, I know you're bi." Sherlock made this comment like he was discussing the weather, but John panicked. Did Sherlock know he fancied his asexual flatmate? Was Sherlock going to embarrass him, or even worse, kick him out?

"If you wanted to keep such things secret, I advise deleting your internet history. Did you really expect to Google 'How to tell if you are gay' and not have me find out about it? Really, John. Don't act surprised."

Relief flooded John. Sherlock didn't know about his crush. Sherlock was ok with a bi flatmate. "Er, yeah. I suppose so."

Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something else, but then he sighed and said, "When I told you I was married to my work, I meant it. I would not say the same now. I have . . ." Sherlock trailed off, which was quite unusual. Normally he could out-talk nearly anyone.

"What are you trying to say?" John tried desperately to quash the hop that he could feel rising up from the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock paused before replying. "We should attempt a relationship. You are obviously attracted to me, and I find myself equally attracted to you." John's jaw dropped. This was the last sentence he had expected to hear. "In addition, I feel an emotional attachment to you that could only be classified as 'love,' whereas you must feel at least some emotional attachment because your reaction to my faked suicide was extremely and convincingly emotional -"

"Sherlock, stop it. Don't make me think about . . . about any of that." John knew how amazing what Sherlock was proposing was, but whenever he thought about the day he saw Sherlock jump, he wanted to cry. He never wanted to be reminded of the three years where he lost Sherlock again.

"John. . . . I apologize. What do you think of my conclusion on our relationship?" Sherlock laid an awkward hand on John's shoulder, as if he was trying to comfort him, but didn't know how.

"Let me think about it."Sherlock looked hurt that John had not immediately agreed and returned to his experiment without replying. John knew that until he decided, Sherlock would pout, so he returned to his room, emotions churning.

He knew that he found Sherlock very attractive – only guilt had stopped him from wanking off about Sherlock. But was he _really_ ready for a relationship with the detective? And more importantly, was Sherlock ready for a relationship with him? Sherlock was not a relationship type of man. He was the sort of person that you expected to die alone or possibly with a load of cats. But Sherlock was right (as usual), he felt an emotional attachment as well a physical attraction. The fake suicide . . . it had hurt him more than he cared to admit. And while John still wasn't exactly sure he wanted to date a man, he knew that it was important to answer quickly and that he definitely would date Sherlock. The more John thought about it, the more John made up his mind: if Sherlock was serious, John would at least attempt a relationship.

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"Sherlock?" John cautiously approached the sulking detective, who was curled up on the sofa like a large black kitten. "We should talk."

"We, or rather, _you_, are talking. Satisfied?"

John sighed. Of course Sherlock had to be contrary."I mean, we should have a conversation." John licked his lips nervously.

"We are having one."

"I mean a proper conversation. About . . . what you mentioned earlier." As John had suspected, this got Sherlock's attention instantly. He uncurled a bit and looked at John.

"Have you made up your mind?" Sherlock's icy green eyes stared accusingly at John, although he was not exactly sure what he was being accused of.

"Er . . . yes. And I think we should have a go at a relationship. But –"

"Good. I'll call for takeout." Sherlock cut John off before he could reach the bit that John really wanted to talk about.

John pursed his lips in annoyance. "I wasn't done." John waited for Sherlock to dismiss him or interrupt up or do something else to annoy him, but Sherlock stopped in his tracks and waited for John to finish. "Think you. We should only be a relationship if you are actually serious about it. If this is a . . . joke, or an experiment, tell me now and . . . Well, just tell me. If it turns out that you lied about something this important, I don't think I would ever forgive you. So just tell, are you serious?"

"I am serious." Sherlock looked at John solemnly. "Please believe me." Sherlock walked over to John until he was standing right in front of him, invading his personal space. "I would not lie about this to you."

"Tell me though, why? Why do you like _me_?"

"Because you make me a better person, and I'd be lost without you. And you constantly surprise me-"

Then John surprised both of them – and it is quite a feat to truly surprise Sherlock – by closing the relatively small gap between their mouths. He smiled into the kiss when he felt Sherlock gasp into his lips in surprise. Slowly, Sherlock relaxed into the kiss, opening his mouth to let John's tongue in as he grabbed at John's hideous jumper.

**Thank you for reading! Next up is Mormor, and after that Mystrade. And maybe after Irene/Molly if I think I wrote it well enough or if my lovely readers want it. Review if you want me to do other ships, I'd be chuffed. Hugs and kisses!**


	2. Mormor

**AN: Hey! Sorry for the wait. But I think (I hope!) that this one is better. It's also longer (sorry.) Rating was upped to M because of cursing and semi-sexual content. And lots of implied sexual content. And because you can never be too safe. Well, I hope you like it!**

Sebastian sat shivering in the wind, waiting for a whore to leave the hotel room across the way. He could shoot her too, but that would draw more attention than necessary. And, he thought as he glanced at his watch, they should be wrapping up soon. Besides, Seb was patient man. In his line of work, he couldn't afford not to be.

Just as the prostitute left the room and Seb had his sights trained on his target, his cell vibrated silently in his pocket. "Fuck you, Jim," he breathed as he ignored his phone and shot the criminal who had dared to cross his boss. Another job well done. Seb smiled cruelly.

Seb did not ignore the text for long, though. He may be a patient man, but his boss was not.

_Come to me when you're done._

The text came from a blocked number and the sender didn't identify him or herself, but there was no doubt in Seb's mind that his boss had sent it. As he quickly cleaned up – he didn't have to worry about it too much, as he didn't have much to clean up and Jim always sent people after to make sure – Seb wondered why Jim needed so urgently. Normally Seb had at least a couple days off before Jim gave him a new target. Seb's phone vibrated again, startling him out of his thoughts.

_Come now._

What a jackass.

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Seb stood at attention in front of his boss in a bland flat. He might call his boss 'Jim' behind his back, but to his face he was always 'Mr. Moriaty,' or more commonly, 'sir.' Seb knew it couldn't be Jim's real flat, but he still felt weird to be in Jim's home.

"I did, Moran. Do why know why?" Jim drew out the last syllable. Seb had no clue. He wasn't too worried – he had completed every job successfully in his year and a half of service to Jim – but Jim was famous in the underworld for his erratic cruelty.

"No sir!"

"As you know, I take what I want." Jim looked up into Seb's face He looked like a lizard sizing up an incredibly tasty fly. Jim smiled and waited for his employee to reply.

Finally the silence and the waiting were too much for Seb. "Yes, sir," he replied.

"Do you know what I want?" Jim invaded Seb's personal space. Seb didn't mind having his personal space invaded every once in a while if he continued to get the paycheck he had grown used to with every hit.

It was clear that it was not a rhetorical question. "No, sir!"

"I want you, Sebastian. Now. Kneel down." Jim reached up for a handful of Seb's close-cropped hair and tried to pull him onto his knees.

For the first time in his service to Jim, Seb refused – absolutely and utterly refused – to do something. He didn't mind the killing – actually, he enjoyed it – but he was not going to give his boss a blowjob, not matter how well he was paid. He pushed Jim away from him roughly. Seb supposed he was going to lose his job now, but snipers as good as him were in high demand.

Jim let himself be pushed away but the he moved back towards his employee. "Now, Moran. This is not a request." Like anything with Moriarty was a request. Seb took a step back. Seb doubted Jim would try to kill anyone with his skills without trying to win him over first, and either way it was worth the chance. He was the best sniper Jim had – he'd be able to elude the others.

"No. I quit." Seb didn't move. He didn't really want to lose his job, and he knew Jim was unusually lenient towards him.

Jim looked surprised. "Fine. But your pay is cut in half. Go. I'll contact you when you're needed."

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"Sebby! Hello! How's the job coming along?" Jim popped up out of nowhere.

"It's going well, sir." Seb kept his focus on his target, even though it was so windy and cold he could feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. This was the first time his boss had shown up at a job, and Seb was determined that it wouldn't be the first time he failed.

"No, sir. Yes, sir," Jim imitated Seb. "Don't call me sir anymore, love. Call me . . . you can call me Jim." He had leaned over and whispered the last five words into Seb's ear breathily, his warm exhalation thawing his frozen ear a little. It occurred to Seb that his boss was flirting in his own weird little way. His first reaction was well, he _is_ pretty cute. But then he reminded himself that Jim was his boss and that he refused to be a whore, no matter how low he had sunk.

"Yes s- Jim. The job is going well." Or at least, it had been until his boss had showed up. He was distracting, and distractions are not good for snipers. "If you could be quiet until I take her out, I could tell you about it."

"You can't shoot straight and talk at the same time? I thought you were my best, Sebby. What a shame." Jim was smiling at him, but in a threatening way. Seb reminded himself that he was dealing with undoubtedly the most dangerous man in the world before replying. Fuck it.

"I am your best. Anyone else would have fired and missed by now. So shut up and sit down before she leaves." Jim, surprisingly, did as he was told and wandered a short distance to sit on the edge of the building. Seb took out the target about a minute later with one clean shot. "Okay, I'm done," he said as he started to clean up.

"As you can tell, Sebby my boy, I've taken a special interest in you. We're going to my flat so you can tell me _all_ about your job." Jim's Irish accent made his voice silky smooth as he glided away from his perch and toward the door leading into the building. Seb hurried through the rest of his meticulous repacking ritual. "Are you coming , Sebby?"

"Yes . . . Jim. Are you sending a cleaning crew?" Seb stood ready to go, but he thought he ought to ask. Letting Seb take the rap for the murder could be Jim's idea of revenge for refusing his advances a couple of days ago.

"Of course I am, Moran. I'm not STUPID!" Jim seemed exceptionally angry for a moment, but quickly calmed down. "So come along now, my driver is waiting."

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"Do you like your job, Sebby boy?" After an awkwardly silent car ride the Jim's real flat, Moriarty had immediately given Seb a drink and now they were sitting on the coach, talking civilly. Seb had expected Jim to try to rape him or something, but his boss seemed to be playing by the rules . . . at least for the time being.

"Yes sir. I mean, yes." Seb sipped his red wine – he was no connoisseur, but it tasted expensive – and avoided eye contact with his boss, pretending to be interested in the modern art that adorned the walls. He wasn't sure why he had agreed to go to Jim's home (not that he had had much choice). It probably had something to do with the way the darkness in Moriarty intrigued him. Seb thought for a moment, wondering how to continue the conversation down a no-sex-for-Jim path. "Do you like yours?"

"It only it wasn't so BORING!" Jim slammed his fist down on his modern looking, all glass table. He made the tiniest crack in the previously perfect surface. "Would you like to make it a little less boring? I don't think you'd be . . . boring."

Seb had been distracted by the slowly spreading crack and hadn't noticed that Jim was creeping closer to him. So all of a sudden, Jim was nibbling at his ear, his hot breath and soft tongue tickling his sensitive skin. He had to remind himself that he was _not_ going to sleep with his boss. "No, actually. I'm not going to fuck you."

"We'll see about that," Jim muttered as he lowered his mouth and started biting, Gently at first and then harder. "I know what you like, Sebby boy." Jim started stroking Seb's thigh as he sat frozen in place. He moved his hand higher and higher until he grabbed at Seb's trouser button and started to undo it.

Without thinking it through, Seb grabbed his favourite gun from his open bag and pointed it at his boss's forehead. "I said, I'm not going to fuck you," he snarled. "So don't fucking touch me."

"Oh, very good, Sebastian. You're not boring at all." Jim pulled away and leaned back, grinning lazily at Seb.

"I am not your whore. I won't fuck you just because you're paying me. So stop trying or I will shoot you. And as you know, the people I want to shoot die." Seb kept his gun trained on Jim as he got off the couch and started backing towards the door. They were alone, and Seb had grabbed his bag of guns before his boss had a chance to grab one, but Seb didn't trust the criminal.

"You're not my whore. Sebby, I'd make you my partner if it meant I could fuck you." Jim looked like a cat ready to pounce on a bird.

"Bullshit. I doubt that even if you wanted to, you could find someone smart enough to be your partner. I'm certainly not, but I'm not stupid. That was bullshit." Seb undid the safety on the gun, keeping it aimed at his boss as he inched away.

"You're soo sweet. You think I'm clever. Stop it, Seb, you're such a flirt!" Jim stood up and took off his Westwood jacket.

"Fuck you. I've got the guns. So sit down and stop trying to fuck me!" Seb could decide whether to aim to kill cleanly or slowly. He had it down to his forehead or his stomach. At this close of a range, he could hit Jim wherever he damn pleased.

Jim snarled and turned to hit the already cracked glass table.. It smashed into a million tiny pieces, several of which stuck into Jim's fist, causing blood to seep from his wounds. Jim regarded his injured hand like it bored him and turned to Seb. "Look what you've made me do. You've won this round, Sebastian Moran, but don't expect to win again!" Jim's singsong voice followed Seb out of the flat as he stumbled backwards out the door.

-interruption in the flow of the story yay-

"Waking up now, are you?" Seb groaned as he woke up out of his drug-induced haze. He moaned. He was so sore. He was in Jim's real flat, naked, gagged, and tied to a bed. Jim hadn't done anything bad for the past two weeks, but apparently his boss had decided to drug and kidnap him.

"Look at me, love." Seb's eyes focused on Jim, who was straddling him wearing nothing but a pair of Westwood trousers, one hand behind his back. Jim wasn't as buff as Seb was, but he definitely had enough muscle to be sexy. "I've got the weapons this time. And the flirting's over, Sebby." Jim brought out the large, sharp kitchen knife had had hidden behind his back and smirked at Seb. "Daddy's had enough now!" Jim started cutting something into Seb's right pec – not hard enough to need medical attention, but enough to sting and draw blood. "See? You're mine forever!" Jim leaned down to lick off the small amount of blood that had welled up on Seb's chest and then sat back to admire what he had carved – a large 'JM.'

Seb tried really hard to think about unsexy things, like his grandmother and little sister, but he couldn't ignore the sexy, half-naked man straddling him and manhandling him in all the ways he liked best. It didn't help that he could feel, pressed on his lower abdomen, exactly how much Jim was enjoying himself.

"This is SO BORING, without you talking." Jim made a fake frowny face. "I'm going to take you're gag off, Sebby boy. Promise not to scream?" Jim trailed his knife down Seb's check until it reached his gag, which he cut off hard enough to scratch Seb. "At least for now . . ." He licked his lips.

"Stop it now. I will shoot you. I will find anything that's left of your family and I will SHOOT THEM ONE BY ONE IF YOU FUCKING RAPE ME!" Seb snarled at Jim.

Jim just laughed. "But Sebby, I know you like it." Jim reached behind him and stroked Seb's dick. Seb unconsciously thrust up into Jim's hand, straining for some friction. Then he remembered what he was doing and where he was and he stopped. "And I'm never going to let you go." Jim traced the outline of Seb's collarbone with his knife, too lightly to make him bleed.

"I'm not your whore!" Seb strained against his handcuffs, but they must have been stronger than standard issue, because Seb couldn't even bend them a little.

"Who said anything about paying you?"

"You're my boss. That's what bosses do. They pay their employees. For a fucking genius, you're completely daft." Seb had stopped struggling in confusion. Did this mean he was fired? There would be time to worry about that later, when he wasn't about to be raped. "Anyway, let me go."

"No, I think I'll keep you for my live-in pet, Sebby my boy." Jim started underlining the initials he had carved into Seb's chest with his knife.

"Fuck you."

"I don't think you understand. What a shame. I had such high hopes for you." Jim giggled, and suddenly his face turned dark and stormy. "Too bad!" Jim unwrapped himself off Seb and jumped to the ground. He grabbed the handcuff keys of the bedside table and started undoing the handcuffs on his ankles.

"Wait –" Seb realized what Jim meant, or at least what he could mean. He burst into laughter. Jim stopped what he was doing and frowned, looking insulted. "Are you asking me _out_? No fucking way. You just had to ask me if I wanted to go for drinks at the pub!" Seb choked out between fits of laughter.

"I'm Jim Moriarty. I don't ask people out." Jim looked nonplussed. Fortunately for Seb's life, he didn't look too pissed – at least not yet. Jim, for once in his life, looked confused.

"You don't understand. You asked me to live –"

"I did not _ask _you anything!" Jim was starting to get angry.

"Whatever. You asked me," Seb added extra emphasis to the word 'asked,' "to move into your flat with you so we could live together. The famous Jim Moriarty," Seb imitated Jim's voice when he said his name, "has a crush on little old me!" Suddenly Seb realized where he was and sobered up. He was arse-naked in a strange flat, making fun of a vicious criminal mastermind (who looked pretty pissed) for asking him out. "Sorry, sir!"

"You'll pay me back for it later." Jim finished unlocking the handcuffs and began to play with the knife again, testing its sharpness on his fingertips. "So, we'll live together. It can be a family business," Jim said sarcastically. He stepped closer to Seb and started lapping up the blood that was oozing from his carving.

Seb was a mix of amusement, anger, and arousal. "You're not doing anything with me until you tell me exactly what the fuck you're telling me to do." Seb grabbed the knife out of Jim's hand and pressed it up against his boss's neck. Jim opened his eyes wide with fear. Seb couldn't tell whether the fear was real or faked. Whatever.

"Live with me. Then you can be on call," Jim ground his crotch into Seb's, "at all times." Jim ignored the knife at his throat and started nibbling on Seb's neck.

"Will you pay me? And what will that make me . . . you boyfriend?" Seb twisted his fingers through Jim's hair and forced him to look up at his face.

"I'll pay you for the sniping. The rest I'll get for free." Jim slid his hands over Seb's arse and squeezed, his fingernails digging in so hard they left little half-circle bruises.

Seb pressed the knife harder into Jim's neck, making a thin line of blood. Jim stretched his neck in a reptilian manner, trying to decrease the pressure on his throat. Seb had trouble concentrating. "Answer my question or I will slit your throat and let you drown in your own blood."

Jim pulled Seb closer. "Didn't I already?" he said, looking falsely innocent.

"No." Seb pulled Jim's hair harder.

"You can be whatever you want to be, Sebby boy."

"Fuck you. Answer me."

Jim looked at Seb with big puppy dog eyes. "DO you want me to show you my soul and tell you all my secrets? Because I love you. Baby, you own my heart. I'm yours forever."

Seb pressed harder on the knife. Blood was now trickling from the cut, and if he went any deeper, it would probably be fatal. "Answer my goddamn question, you cunt."

Jim dropped the puppy dog act. "Fine. You're hot. I want you, and," he glanced down, "you want me. So let's fuck."

"I'm not letting you use me."

"You've managed to keep up so far, haven't you? Most . . . impressive." And not boring in the least." Jim couldn't get much closer to Seb without slitting his own throat, but he pressed his lower half closer anyway.

"When you kick me out I'll be fucked." Seb was struggling to remain even remotely logical about anything.

"I won't kick you out, if you continue to not bore me."

"I can't trust you." Seb was breathing heavily.

"And isn't that soo exciting?" Jim whispered, moving his hands to Seb's hips.

Seb made a decision. He knew it was completely stupid and it would probably cost him his life, but he knew what he wanted. He threw the knife onto the bed – to be used later that night – and pulled Jim up for a sloppy kiss, full of tongue, teeth, and the promise that nothing would be boring for a long time.

**Thanks to the people (well, the two of you) that decided to follow. I hope more of you follow this time! Also, a review (positive or negative) would mean the world. Next up: Mystrade! And after, Irolly? Morene? Hugs and kisses!**


	3. Mystrade

**Hello my lovely readers! Sorry about the very long wait, but exams and life got in the way of my fanfiction (on the plus side, my art is in a show, finally). Thank you so much for the love (more about that after the story)! Anyway, please enjoy!**

"Hello, Detective Lestrade." Greg smiled uncertainly at the man sitting behind the desk. Greg wasn't exactly sure who the man was, but he knew that he had some sort of interest in the strange young man that had been helping him with his cases recently.

"Hello . . ." Lestrade trailed off, waiting to be introduced.

"Mycroft Holmes. Just Mycroft will do." The strange man – who looked younger than he had sounded over the phone – smiled politely but insincerely at him. He obviously wasn't normal, but he wasn't half a weird as the bloke who must be his younger brother (Holmes couldn't be a common last name). "I have a business proposition for you."

"Are you trying to bribe me?" Greg sighed softly. So much extra paperwork if he was.

"No. This concerns my younger brother, Sherlock." This was worse than paperwork. Even though Greg felt a paternal urge to protect the strange young man, he was without a doubt the biggest headache Greg had encountered in his career so far. Including the criminals. And, Greg groaned internally, no he would probably have to deal with another Holmes brother on a regular basis, as if one wasn't bad enough. And this one had power in the British government.

"Yeah?"

"Sit down. We have much to discuss." Mycroft gestured with his signature black umbrella to the plush chair that faced his own.

-INTERUPTION-

"I've had the worst bloody day!" Greg didn't look up from his beer as Mycroft sat daintily across from him in the pub booth. It was true. In the seven years since he had met the Holmes brothers, he had never had a day quite as bad as this one.

"I can sympathize. Please, go on." Normally Mycroft's super-posh behavior made Greg feel slightly inferior and awkward, but today he just wanted to complain to someone who would actually listen.

"And it wasn't even your insulting, pretentious little brother this time! Oh no, I have a horrible day at work and I go home and what do I find?" Greg paused his story to gulp down some more beer.

It was a rhetorical question, but of course Mycroft answered it anyway. "What happened?"

Greg slammed down his mug. "My bloody wife shagging some bloke she met online!" Greg was too angry to say more as he thought about his wife's affair.

"I'm so sorry." Mycroft put his hand on Greg's shoulder momentarily. "Do you need somewhere to stay? I have plenty of space." He already knew Greg would take him up on his offer, so he texted Anthea to bring the car around. He wasn't going to stay at his home tonight, and he was clearly drinking far too much to be in any state to find other lodgings.

"Yeah, thanks . . . " Greg mumbled as he finished his beer – at least the sixth that night, judging by the smell – and stood to go. "Would you mind going now?"

"Not at all." Mycroft gave his friend a pinched smile as he paid his tab and helped Greg into the waiting car.

-INTERUPTION-

A month and a half later, Greg came to stay at Mycroft's flat, this time for a bit longer. He and his wife, after more than a month of trying, had found their differences irreconcilable, and Greg moved out before the divorce. He had been staying in a cheap motel, but Mycroft had offered a spare room until he could find a proper flat.

"Thanks, Mycroft," Greg said as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. He had only been there once before and he didn't remember it too well, as he had spent the entire time either piss drunk, unconscious, or heavily hungover the whole time.

"It's not a problem. It's this way to your room." Mycroft grabbed one of the two duffle bags – Greg didn't have very much stuff – and started walking down a short hallway. Mycroft's flat, as expected, was huge. Greg hadn't even known that there were flats this big in London. Then again, Mycroft owned the whole building, so it could be several different apartments joined into one –

Greg, lost in thought, ran into Mycroft, who had stopped in front of the second to last door in the hallway. "Err, sorry."

"It's okay. Well, this is your room. Mine," Mycroft pointed to the door at the end, "is right next door if you'll be needing anything. Would you like a tour, or . . . " Mycroft trailed off, waiting for Greg to respond.

It took him a second. "I'll just settle in. Can I make my own dinner or should I order out?"

"Oh, no. You're my guest. Ring for me when you want dinner and I'll have Anthea send it down. Unfortunately, I'll be out working until very late. I'll see you tomorrow, then?" Mycroft started walking away and then paused, remembering he had to wait for a reply.

"Yeah, I expect so. Well. Thanks again." As he watched Mycroft walk away, he wondered why he felt so awkward. Sure, Mycroft was posh, but Greg could handle posh people, especially ones that were his friends. He supposed it was because he wanted to impress Mycroft more than the other posh people he knew.

-INTERUPTION-

Mycroft tiptoes past Greg's room, deep in thought about South Sudan, when he heard almost inaudible sobbing coming from – could that be? – his friend's new room. Mycroft paused uncertainly, his hand resting on top of the door handle. Should he go in? Yes. Greg was a strong, solid man, and Mycroft felt an inexplicable urge to do anything and everything to help him.

Mycroft opened the door a hairsbreadth and peered in. From what little he could see, it looked like Greg hadn't noticed. "Greg?" he whispered. No reply. "I'm going to come in now. . . ." Still no reply. Mycroft walked slowly over to the bed, and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down next to the huddled mass of his friend. Greg still didn't acknowledge his presence and continued to cry softly into his pillow.

He was asleep. How obvious. Mycroft sighed, absent-mindedly running a hand through the D.I.'s silver hair. It was clearly just a nightmare. Mycroft knew he should wake the man up – he was obviously going through a horrible dream (almost certainly about the divorce) – but the surge of protectiveness Mycroft had felt was gone. And it would be hard to explain his presence in Greg's room in the middle of the night. Mycroft got off bed and began gently shaking Greg's shoulder. He'd have to risk it. "Wake up, Lestrade. You're having a bad dream."

Greg woke with a startled grunt, just in time to see his host slip quietly through his door. No, that couldn't be Mycroft – that would be so unlike him. Greg rolled over, not really caring about his nighttime visitor, and fell back asleep, this time with better dreams.

-INTERUPTION-

The next evening, Mycroft made an effort to spend time with his guest. His unconscious tears last night had worried the government employee. The impending divorce had obviously bothered Greg more than Mycroft had deduced previously. Mycroft wanted to be sure that his friend was healthy. The least conspicuous way to find out his mental state was to get him tipsy. Therefore, dinner.

"More wine?" Mycroft smiled at Greg, almost genuinely. He was using an expensive brand of red wine that he knew Greg had tried once and been particularly fond of. He had drunk enough to be tipsy already, and soon Mycroft should stop offering it. A glass more and a well placed question would do the trick.

"Yeah, thanks mate." Greg's speech was ever so slightly slurred as he held out his now empty wine glass.

Unfortunately, Anthea chose that moment to walk in, holding out his phone urgently. "For you, sir. I'm told it's very important." She continued to offer Mycroft the phone, even though he didn't reach for it.

"I'm afraid it will have to wait until after my . . . weekly break." Mycroft gave his assistant a badly faked smile. "My tradition of one uninterrupted dinner per week." A lie, obviously, but one that would insure that Anthea would not interrupt them again.

She looked at him questioningly, her proffered arm falling awkwardly to her side. "If you're sure," she said as she left.

"Ah, yes. . . . So what are your plans now?" Mycroft would be able to determine how emotionally healthy Greg was based on his response. And thanks to plenty of fine wine, Greg was sure to be honest. Mycroft would figure out a plan of action to address the possible problems once he knew what they actually were.

"Shag all the men I can! If she can, why not me?" He was definitely not over her, but Greg seemed to be in the anger stage of grieving. He seemed to be progressing at the right rate for such a long term relationship, but Mycroft would have to have Anthea look it up. But Greg seemed to have an unhealthy desire for revenge – he would have to check that too – even though it was understandable, given the fact that –

Mycroft realized, mid-analyzation, what was most surprising about Greg's response. "Shag all the . . . men?" He echoed, trying to stop himself feeling something that almost seemed like hope. Perhaps he had misheard. . . .

"Yeah, I play for both teams if you know what I mean," Greg smirked. Maybe Mycroft should have given him a little less wine. Greg saw the shock on Mycroft's face and sobered up slightly. "Err, yeah . . . sorry . . . probably shoulda mentioned it earlier. . . . Hope you're not a homophobic type."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth ticked up for a second. "Not in the least. I'm sure you know of my brother and John's relationship. Not to mention, I am gay myself," Mycroft said smoothly.

Greg seemed momentarily surprised, but then sat back and laughed. "Not what I expected, M'croft. But good on you, being so open about it." Greg smirked and scooted closer. "Wanna get dinner sometime, big man?"

Mycroft sighed quietly, regretting the decision to see if Greg needed help. He knew just as much as before – only time would heal Greg. "I think you've had enough wine," he said as he grabbed at the other man's drink. Mycroft avoided thinking about how he wished Greg's suggestion about dinner had been serious.

-INTERUPTION-

Two months slipped past without either man really noticing. Mycroft did begin to take "weekly breaks" in order to keep track of Greg's mental state (although he no longer tried to get the man drunk, as that brought up the memory of Greg's "dinner" proposition). This week, Greg had decided to make pasta – even he couldn't mess that up – and had their dinner for two set up when Mycroft got home from a stressful meeting concerning the Russian elections.

"You cooked." Mycroft was surprised. Greg was not a domestic man.

"Yeah . . . isn't much though. Haven't had an interesting case for days. I'm beginning to feel like Sherlock!" Greg snorted. "Next thing, I'll be shooting the walls!"

"I should hope not. At least you have something; imagine how much worse it is for him." Mycroft knew what Sherlock was up to, but it wouldn't hurt to see what he was telling others. The more Mycroft knew, the more he would be able to predict.

"Oh no, he's got some bee experiment that's taking up his time. It must be driving John up the wall." From there, they made small talk without Mycroft steering the conversation. Normally he would try to collect information, but since Greg had started living in his flat he had found that occasionally people (and especially Greg) were just as interesting when they controlled the conversation. And it was a relief to be able to finally turn his brain off.

However, after Mycroft had returned from the bathroom (he was actually responding to a minor crisis in the Punjab region), Greg suddenly took the conversation on a more serious path.

"You know, I think I'm going to be okay. With the divorce and everything." He pushed the last of his linguini around ion his plate, not making eye contact with his host. "So maybe I should move out, start looking for my own flat." He didn't want to. Greg enjoyed the weekly dinners, the easy companionship and conversation – when one of them wasn't working – and most of all, he enjoyed Mycroft (more than he cared to admit, even to himself).Unlike most of his friends, Mycroft made him think, _really_ think, about his opinions. And he wasn't bad looking either. Greg forced the last thought out of his mind and began finishing his pasta so he could continue to look away from Mycroft.

"There's no rush." Mycroft did not want to lose the man he viewed as one of his very few true friends, even though it had taken him nearly a month of living with Greg for him to admit to himself that he did actually care about another human being for once. An although they had been friends for years before Greg had moved in, they were closer now that Mycroft wasn't trying to learn important information in every conversation.

"Err . . . good. It'll probably be another couple of weeks before I can start looking. I don't have any good cases, but I have plenty of ones that involve an arse-load of paperwork," Greg said as he gave a tiny sigh of exasperation. Mycroft nodded in sympathy. He understood too much paperwork entirely too well. To cheer up his friend, Mycroft decided to try a joke.

"Well, I expect you won't be staying here at nights quite so much, eh?" Mycroft quirked the side of his mouth up in a semi-genuine smile. Greg was a handsome, smart, and charming man, and once he entered the dating scene again Mycroft was sure that he could get any woman or man he wanted.

Greg looked at him blankly. Mycroft realized he hadn't provided sufficient context for his joke. "If you begin dating again, that is."

"Oh, yeah. About that . . ." Greg trailed off and looked like he was debating something. After a moment he said, and a joking tone of voice, "Want to get dinner sometime?"

Mycroft was about to reply on a similarly joking fashion, but because half of him – okay, more like three fourths of him – wished Greg was being serious, he decided to analyze the situation. Greg, although speaking in a tone that said he was joking, was actually displaying the behavior of a nervous man, and Greg's pupils dilated slightly when he looked at his host. It only took a small amount of deduction to realize Greg actually did want to go to dinner with Mycroft. It only took a split second more for the government worker to decide his response. "Yes. I will be busy next Friday, but perhaps you will be free that Saturday?"

"What?" Greg nearly spit out his drink. Mycroft couldn't tell whether he was more surprised that Mycroft had taken him seriously or that Mycroft had actually said yes. Probably the latter. "But we've all heard you say it: caring is not an advantage." Definitely the latter. Greg's wanted to do this for at least a week.

"I have all the advantages. I have to give my enemies something." Mycroft smirked – he didn't want to tell Greg that he actually did care, despite his best efforts not to. Greg snorted.

-INTERUPTION-

The couple sat together in companionable silence (although neither realized it, it had been exactly three months since they had had that fateful conversation). Mycroft was writing a speech – he wouldn't tell whose speech it was – and Greg was searching though case files, trying to find a lead. He was determined not to ask Sherlock for help on this case. He sighed in frustration; he knew he was staring something dead in the face, but he just couldn't see it. Maybe a break would help.

"Mycroft, do you want to take a break now?" Greg glanced over at his partner, who continued to edit the speech he was handwriting. So old fashioned.

Mycroft didn't look up. "No."

"Come on, just forty five minutes. I'll pop in a Doctor Who episode and we can de-stress." Greg knew he probably shouldn't bother, but Mycroft had had an "important meeting" pop up last time they had relaxed together, and Greg wanted to spend more time together. Besides, Mycroft had been really stressed lately, and Greg knew he needed a break.

"No."

"Please?" Greg knew he shouldn't push; buy Mycroft was being so difficult. "Just fifteen minutes." Mycroft didn't respond. Greg rolled his eyes. Sometimes Mycroft reminded him too much of Sherlock. "I just want to spend time with you."

"I said no."

Greg huffed. "Bloody work," he muttered under his breath. And even though he knew it technically wasn't Mycroft's fault, he thought that Mycroft's behavior wasn't helping anyone.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft finally looked up. He hadn't heard exactly what Greg had muttered, and he wanted to gauge how angry Greg was.

"I _said_," Greg raised his voice, "bloody work!" He wasn't angry so much as disappointed. Their relationship was so young and they could only spend a small amount of time together, thanks to their busy work schedules, especially Mycroft's. Greg understood that it really wasn't his boyfriend's fault, and he understood the lure of work himself – he was a workaholic too – but it seemed like Mycroft could even be bothered to make an effort.

"You knew about my work and what it demands before we entered our relationship." Mycroft knew he should be gentler about this, but he needed to get the speech done and to do that he needed Greg to stop badgering him. It was incredibly annoying when he was trying to concentrate.

"You could, oh, I don't know . . . try!" Somehow, Greg found himself completely angry. He wasn't sure how he had gotten so angry so quickly, but he felt like he was full of rage. (Deep down, he knew it was stress, but that part of him had lost control over his actions). The man didn't even try to be a good boyfriend. For the love of god, he didn't even try to be polite when he was working! That's not how someone should treat their friend, let alone their boyfriend!

"We'll talk about this later. Please be quiet." Mycroft didn't understand why Greg couldn't just be more mature. He was trying to work, and the man was interrupting him. Why could he understand how important this work was, not just to him but to all of Great Britain?

"I love you!" Greg yelled with more force than he realized. He was more surprised than Mycroft that he had said such a thing. Why had he admitted this now, when they were in the middle of an argument? Some of Greg's rage boiled away, leaving him feeling empty.

"I'm sorry. I realize that I'm less important than your work and I always will be. I'll be back tomorrow to get my things," Greg said calmly, but shakily. He grabbed his coat and walked out. As he left, Greg winched at how melodramatic he was being. It really wasn't that big a deal, especially because they hadn't been dating long. But Mycroft's treatment of him – like he was completely unimportant, like he was a servant that could be called upon whenever necessary and dismissed whenever he wasn't – angered him. Mycroft shouldn't have started a relationship with someone he didn't care about, he thought as he walked out into the night, turning his collar up against the cold. For the second time in less than six months, he had to find a new place to stay. And strangely, he was more upset this time.

-INTERUPTION-

Greg woke up to a knock on the door of his grimy motel room. He groaned. "One moment!" He yelled, taking his time as he scrambled around in the dark, looking for proper clothing. It was probably the cleaners, but he had texted Dimmock on where he was staying, so it could be work. He really, really, _really_ hoped it wasn't. He had the worst hangover, and he couldn't find his trousers.

He opened the door only as far as the chain would allow. "What?" he said as he squinted into the early morning light, unable to see who he was talking to.

"Hello, Greg. It's Mycroft." Greg's eyes were finally adjusting to the light, enough to tell that it was, in fact, Mycroft.

"What?" he said again, this time much more confused. He couldn't really process what was going on yet.

Mycroft held out a glass of water and a bottle Greg couldn't read the label of. He knocked out two pills and gulped them down without thinking. "For your hangover," Mycroft explained belatedly.

"Yeah. Give me a sec." Greg shut the door and flicked on the lights. He quickly found his trousers under the bed – why had he put them _there_? – and struggled them on. He stumbled into the dingy bathroom for a piss, still in his morning daze. But after he splashed some water on his face (and, accidently, his shirt), he woke up a bit. He realized it probably wasn't normal for Mycroft to show up on his doorstep bright and early the morning after they broke up. And, Greg realized, it was even stranger that the government employee even knew where he was. He'd have to ask about that.

He unchained the door and opened it completely, gesturing for Mycroft to come into the messy motel room. "Uh . . ." he wasn't sure what to say.

Mycroft seemed unusually uncertain. After observing the gross room for several seconds (several extremely awkward seconds), he finally broke the silence. "I was wrong." He did not explain further, and Greg stared at him for a moment, trying to understand.

"About what?" Greg had an idea about what Mycroft might mean, but if he jumped to the wrong conclusion he would embarrass himself more. He hoped he was apologizing for last night, but for all Greg knew he was apologizing for their entire relationship.

Mycroft took a tentative step toward Greg, and although his facial expression no longer looked anxious, Greg knew him well enough to see that he was nervous. Greg dared to hope. "You know what I would like to apologize for. Last night. My behavior was rude and uncalled for."

Greg was elated, but managed to keep his feelings to himself. They could still be broken up for good. "Yeah, it was. But I suppose I forgive you."

"Good. But I have more to say. If you are willing, I would like it if you moved back in, permanently. I will try to pay you the attention you deserve, and make sure your needs are fulfilled. But you must understand I may not always be capable a supporting you in the way you need, as my work is extremely important not only to myself but also to all of the United Kingdom." Mycroft had moved even closer to Greg and now the government official stood directly in front of him, holding his umbrella so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he waited for an answer.

Greg paused, but not for very long. He knew his answer. "Yes. But just to make sure, do you actually care? You've never said, ice man," Greg joked weakly. He knew that Mycroft cared. Why else would he have tracked him down, probably even had someone tail him, if he didn't care? But he wanted – no, he _needed_ – to hear Mycroft admit it.

"Yes. Because you are brave and strong and smarter than you know. You are always good company and you are willing to understand me and my laws. I will not always understand you or take care of you as you deserve, but I will always try." Mycroft was keeping his face carefully blank, but Greg knew he meant what he said.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry for overreacting. I knew your work was time consuming and stressful, and I should have thought about the pressure you were under before blowing up like that." Greg reached out for a hug and was relieved when Mycroft returned the embrace.

"You are forgiven," Mycroft said quietly into the ear of the man resting his head on his shoulder. He could feel some of the tension ebb out of Greg's back and arms – but not all of it (Greg had a very stressful job). Mycroft knew Greg understood what he was trying to say: that he loved Greg too.

"Good," Greg whispered. He leaned up and captured Mycroft's mouth with his own, knowing that although things would never be easy, he and Mycroft would always be side by side.

**Well, I don't like it half as much as I like my Mormor, but oh well. Anyway, many thanks to destinae and BloodyRosie, who reviewed; destinae (again), otala, and yourlovelylandlandy, who story alerted; Kleoette, who author alerted; and SciFiSlashFreak, BloodyRosie (again) and otala (again), who favorited. Many thanks to all of you and anyone I've accidentally left out. I love you 3.**

**So if any of you read this, I was thinking about redoing my Johnlock chapter, as they were a bit OOC. Let me know how you feel either way if you would be so kind. I would update it at the same time as my Morene chapter. Hugs and kisses!**


	4. Morene

**Okay, so it only took me the whole summer to update. Nbd. I was in Spain (sans computer) for a good chunk of it, but still. I'm so sorry! And it doesn't help this is . . . not my best. Anyway. Read. I love you all.**

* * *

Molly got home from work fairly late. She was greeted by a sleeping Sherlock – stilled tired out from faking his death – and a new message on her answering machine. She covered Sherlock in a blanket and pressed the play bottom.

"You're alive. Let's have dinner," a woman's voice said. Then she rattled off a phone number. "That's my number. Call me." She sounded flirtatious. Sexy. Molly would've killed to have a voice like that – like bottled sex.

Molly shook off the sheer sex that the voice on her answering machine oozed – she felt dirty just thinking about it – and wondered whether she should call back. She knew she should – they had obviously called the wrong number – but she wanted to keep pretending someone as attractive as the phone-woman (Molly just assumed she was a sexy as her voice) had actually called _her_.

She procrastinated by making tea, but when the water boiled and Sherlock still hadn't woken up, Molly had run out of excuses.

After going through the message again to copy the number (the voice sent shivers down her spine), Molly hesitantly called. She pulled Toby, her cat, onto her lap for comfort as the phone rang. Finally, someone picked up.

"Hello?" It was definitely not the same woman as before. This one sounded more bored than sexy.

"Err, hello. You called this number earlier about dinner? Umm . . . I think you've got the wrong number, sorry." Molly felt so awkward. She probably had the wrong number herself. She added too much sugar to her tea, to give herself something to do.

"Nope. You're Molly Hooper, right?" This woman didn't stop for confirmation. "Trust me, my employer doesn't call the wrong number. So dinner with the woman, then?" Once again the secretary or whatever of the sex-voice woman (since when had Molly's mind been so naughty?) didn't wait for Molly to reply. "She's open at seven thirty. How about Rose's Café?" The secretary sounded amused, and Molly was fairly sure she was being laughed at.

"Yeah," she stuttered out.

"Good. She'll see you then." The other woman hung up.

Molly jumped up, excited – Toby yowled in protest as he fell and scampered off, hissing. She had canceled all of her plans (not there were many) in case Sherlock needed more, but right now all he seemed to need was sleep. Molly was glad she'd be able to leave the flat and go out to dinner with someone, as she usually ate in and alone. She didn't even particularly care who it was at this point, just that it wasn't Sherlock. She checked her watch – she only had about an hour and a half, and she didn't even know where the café was. She rushed off to shower, tea forgotten.

* * *

Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Rose Café was a lot fancier than she had expected and she felt underdressed in her simple black skirt and cherry jumper. It didn't help that the place was tiny, dimly lit, and almost entirely empty, so it practically felt like she was alone with the most intimidating woman she had ever laid eyes on.

Like her voice, she oozed sex appeal. Her dark hair was up into a sleek bun, her makeup was impeccable, and she had squeezed into a little black dress that was so glamorous Molly knew she would never, in her wildest dreams, be able to pull off. And this woman had – oh god – noticed that Molly was staring.

She laughed. "I know what you like, little mouse." She slid a little closer to her prey in their tiny, round booth, lit by streamers of fairy lights. She smelled like expensive roses and rich, black coffee.

Suddenly, something in Molly's mind clicked. She did know who this was. This was Irene Adler, the woman who nearly beat Sherlock. When her secretary had been talking, she hadn't meant "the woman" as some random woman. She meant The Woman, capital T capital W. Molly let out a tiny gasp. "And I know what you like, Irene," Molly managed to say with minimal shakiness in spite of her nerves.

"I don't believe you do." Shock had flashed on Irene's face momentarily, but she had quickly replaced it with a collected, crafty expression. She leaned back slightly, away from Molly. Molly could feel the distain Irene had for her like it was a physical slap in the face. It all made sense now. Of course someone like Irene would never call someone like Molly. She had been calling for Sherlock.

"You like Sherlock. But I won't help you. We'll move him. I – We – You can't get to him," Molly choked out, hands shaking a little with nerves. She got up to leave, still slightly shocked that she had said something like that to a dominatrix.

Irene sighed and waved over a waitress who had been leaning against a wall, looking bored. "Secure the doors." She nodded and walked off to talk to the only other customers, who stood up and blocked the door. As she returned to her spot by the counter, she shot Molly a sympathetic half smile. It didn't make Molly feel even a little better. Irene turned back to Molly, who was frozen with confusion. "I can make you talk, Miss Hooper. I do know what you like."

"You can't do anything to him now. The only person he really loves – even if he doesn't get it yet – thinks he's dead. He hasn't got anything left to lose." Molly was visibly shaking now, with anger and fear. "So you can just let me go."

Irene didn't make eye contact. "That's not what it's about."

"Well tell me what it's about." Molly didn't believe a word Irene said. She knew she couldn't do much, but she could at least try to protect Sherlock.

Irene cursed herself for letting that slip. Too much sentiment. Too much Sherlock. But Molly didn't really count, and she just seemed so easy to talk to. "I want to talk to him," she said, trying to sound imperious. She wasn't sure how Molly would react to that. Why didn't she research? Why had she come so unprepared?

"Well you can't!" Molly half yelled, a little hysterically.

Irene got up and stood in front of Molly, towering over her in her sky-high heels. "_I_ think I can." She reached out and traced Molly's lower lip with one blood red fingernail. Molly let out the tiniest gasp, looking wide-eyed at the other woman, as the touch sent a shiver down her spine. Irene cupped her face as if she was going to kiss her; they were breathing the same air and Molly felt her heart rate speed up –

But instead she turned and quickly strode out, gesturing at the people who were blocking the door to follow her. They did without a word, leaving Molly shocked and confused and alone in the intimate restaurant.

* * *

Molly was daydream when she heard the knock on the door. After the café incident two weeks ago, she had contacted Mycroft and had Sherlock moved (although not until another week with a bored Sherlock cured Molly of most of her infatuation). She was wondering where he was going when the knock brought her back to reality.

"Come in!" She yelled, busying herself with a microscope in case it was her boss.

Irene glided in, looking utterly refined. Molly felt her mouth drop open and it took her a full second to regain enough control to snap it shut. The Woman wrapped an arm around Molly's waist, which was embarrassingly thick (or so a self-conscious Molly thought) thanks to layers of clothing, and breathed into her ear, "Hello, Miss Hooper."

"I'm busy," she tried to declare firmly. It came out as more of a squeaky mumble. Molly continued to look into her microscope even though she had long ago forgotten what was in the slide.

Irene slid a long finger under her chin, lifting and turning her head so that their faces were so close their noses brushed. She purred, "Really?" and closed the tiny gap between their mouths.

It was the first kiss Molly had had in _months_. And it was certainly the best kiss she'd ever had. But Molly wasn't thinking about that, oh god no. It was all about the soft tongue and warm mouth and the firm but gentle hands helping her out of her lap coat and pulling her closer, and the feel of Irene's waist under one hand and her soft dark hair curling around her other, and Molly never wanted it to end, screw the consequences.

Oh. The consequences. Molly's mouth stopped moving with Irene's, and the woman pulled away to nibble on her ear. "I know you like this, Miss Hooper," she murmured, sending really pleasant shivers down her spine. It was almost enough for her to give in, relax, have, for once, some fun; almost enough to forgot why she couldn't do just that.

With some difficulty Molly took her hands off of Irene and backed up against a table. "I don't know where Sherlock is and if I did I wouldn't tell you." Molly looked away and shifted her weight uneasily. The sooner she left the better, especially because a good half of her – her lower half – wanted her to stay.

Irene paused, surprised, for a moment before stepping smoothly toward Molly, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her closer. "That doesn't matter," she breathed as she leaned down to start kissing and nipping at Molly's neck. Molly moaned a little and gave into the kisses.

Then she remembered it was _Irene Adler_, and everything she did she did for a price. Mycroft had finally explained who she was exactly in full once it had become clear that Molly was a target. "No, really, I don't know where he is!" she squeaked, leaning away because she couldn't back up any further.

"It's not about that," Irene murmured against her neck, leaning with Molly.

Molly pushed her away, breathing heavily, and grabbed her lab coat, which had been crumbled on to a convenient chair. "What is it about, then?" she said a little more shrilly than she had meant to as she struggled with one of the sleeves on the coat.

Irene stepped back next to her and helped her out of her coat gently, Molly forgetting she was supposed to be resisting. "How do you know I don't just want someone warm to touch and hold and wake up next in the morning?" Irene's voice was soft, almost convincing.

Molly backed away from her and ran into another table. Why did they have so many tables in here anyway? "Because I know people like you, and what you're like." Sherlock used to be like that. "You'll never care. You'll just use the people who could care about you until they don't until you find someone who changes you, you'll never want what you say you want." Molly pushed herself up to her full height and dried the palm of her hand on her slacks. She steeled herself for finally turning Irene down, totally and completely. "I'm not sure exactly what you want, but I won't give it to you."

Irene smiled a little and stepped up next to Molly, sliding a hand under her shirt and rubbing little circles with a cool thumb on Molly's warm hip. "I always get what I want," she purred.

Some of Molly – okay, most of her – was screaming: yes, yes you do get what you want, and if you want me, for the love of god, _take me_. Take me now, take me here, and make me _scream_. But a little voice at the back of her head, which sounded disconcertingly like her mum, was telling her no, don't let her win. You have to protect Sherlock. It took her a second but she finally got out, "You haven't always."

Irene laughed and started to unbutton Molly's shirt from the bottom up. "Really?"

Molly took a deep breath. "You didn't get Sherlock. He was never yours." Irene was still smiling, but stopped undoing Molly's shirt.

"He did what I wanted him to," she said evenly.

"But you never," Molly paused, trying to find a way to say what she was thinking without sounding crass, "_had_ him."

"I was just playing them game," Irene said confidently, although she leaned away from Molly ever so slightly.

"No you weren't," Molly snapped. She froze for a moment, panicking. Who was she to talk to someone like that? But she recovered quickly. "I know it's hard but you have to get over him. You can't have him."

"Just because you're in love with him doesn't mean everyone else is too," Irene said. Her mind screamed at her to STOP TALKING because this wasn't part of the plan. But she kept her face cool because if she could play anyone she could play this little Molly Hooper.

"At least I didn't deny it when I was. And at least I'm starting to get over him, instead of . . . instead of trying to stalk him!"

"I'm sure you know all about getting over people." Irene couldn't help it: the sarcasm just came to her without her really considering the consequences. Something about Molly had lowered her guards dangerously. She could only hope that Molly was too stupid to notice the sarcasm, but Irene doubted it. She hadn't acted this stupid around someone since Sherlock, and she was acting even worse now. But if she concentrated hard, she could almost certainly pull this off.

Molly blushed. "Well . . ." she trailed off. After a moment, she started again, "Well I know more that you. Sherlock is happy now. Well, not now, but he could be. If he were where he should be. But even so, someone makes him happy and that's enough for me. I'm happy for him and glad he finally isn't alone. So stop being so _selfish_ and get over him!" Molly's hands were sweating badly but she wasn't as afraid anymore.

Irene kept her face and demeanor blank, but Molly just _knew_ something was wrong. She fought back a weird urge to comfort Irene – she was the enemy! Instead she stood around awkwardly, forgetting to even pretend to do something. "I'm on break," she muttered as she half-ran from the room, forgetting to button up the bottom third of her shirt, leaving a pale triangle of her skin still visible.

It took a minute for Irene to neaten herself up enough to leave. It could've gone better, that was for sure. Hell, it could hardly have gone much worse. Not only did she not know where Sherlock was _and_ Molly wasn't hers (that had started as a means to an end, but now it was definitely a goal), she had this strange sense that maybe she should give up the chase and, for once, let herself be the one that has been beaten.

* * *

_You were right. Dinner?_

Molly hesitated before deleting her new message. It was probably just a wrong number and she should probably let the person know. But she couldn't escape the feeling that the text could only be from Irene, so to be safe she should ignore it completely. But Molly felt bad for possibly-Irene – in her own weird way, she was acting more pitifully than Molly ever had. And Molly didn't even have any information Irene could use to find Sherlock. Which raised a question she had been avoiding – why her? Obviously at the beginning it had been because Irene thought she could get to Sherlock through Molly. But now . . . what did Irene think she'd get? There were better, more obvious ways to find him, and Irene was nothing if not clever. So . . . why _her_?

Her phone vibrated again, calling her back to reality. Same number; Molly considered just deleting it without looking at it. But it couldn't hurt to just look.

_Please._

It couldn't be Irene. Molly felt almost disappointed. She texted back.

_who is this_

Better safe than sorry – it still could be Irene. Molly felt nervous (why was she so nervous?) as she waited for a reply. After what felt like an hour, but was probably only a couple of minutes, her phone buzzed again.

_Surely you can figure that one out, Miss Hooper._

The texter obviously was not texting the wrong number. Molly was pleased that she knew for certain it was Irene, although now she had to worry about how she could possibly reply. And anyway, should she even be texting Irene? Probably not. Did she want to? Debatable, but yes. Whether she'd be able to without embarrassing herself was a whole other question.

Before she could think of a reply, she got another text.

_Dinner. Same place and time._

Molly probably should have known better, but she typed back.

_ok_

* * *

Molly was regretting wearing the little black dress. The last time she had worn it was to impress Sherlock and that hadn't turned out very well. This time she wasn't even sure why she was wearing it (and she was particularly emphatic in her own mind that she was not wearing it to impress Irene), and now she was sitting alone in a booth – Irene was late – desperately wish she had worn something, anything else.

When Irene arrived fashionably late (which was weird, because she had invited Molly, not the other way around), a familiar waitress immediately came to serve them. Since they had been left alone last time and the café was clearly under Irene's control, Molly took it as a sign she wouldn't be accosted this time. That, of course, did nothing for her nerves.

"Ms. Adler, Miss Hooper. What can I get for you?" The waitress seemed much warmer toward Irene. They probably were shagging or something. The waitress – Kate, her nametag read – was stunning enough to be Irene's type. Molly slumped a little lower in her seat, partly from intimidation, partly from embarrassment about thinking such naughty thoughts.

"Give Molly a moment, Kate." Definitely shagging – the barely concealed dirty look said it all. Molly quickly gave up on trying to figure out what exactly the dynamics were between Kate and Irene. She had other things to worry about.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Molly kept her eyes focused on the menu without actually taking any of it in. When it became clear Irene wasn't going to talk, she squeaked, "So, uh, why dinner?"

"Just to talk," Irene said casually, careful that her (metaphorical) mask didn't slip. After considering it for a moment, Molly decided to believe her. Firstly, she was already there, and secondly, Irene didn't seem to be out to seduce her for once. She looked as elegant as ever, but she didn't seem to be trying as hard as usual – she hadn't even bothered to reapply lipstick. Molly tried to stop feeling a tiny bit disappointed.

Molly shook herself a little and looked at the menu again. She was horribly aware of the long silence between them, but she needed to figure out what was happening.

Irene had convinced her that she wasn't trying to seduce her, but Molly struggle to come up with a different reason for Irene to take her to dinner.

Kate came back, pointedly ignoring Molly. "Irene?" she asked, pen hovering over her pad of paper as she smiled at Irene.

"The chicken," Irene replied, handing the menu back without even glancing at her . . . lover? Friend with benefits? Molly wasn't even sure why she was so interested in their . . . relationship thing or whatever.

"And?" Kate concentrated on her paper instead of on Molly.

"The salad, please," Molly guessed, having not actually read any of the menu options. She couldn't figure out why Kate was so unfriendly – she seemed pretty sympathetic last time. And Kate's . . . whatever . . . wasn't even trying to get her in bed this time!

It dawned on Molly that perhaps Kate was angry because Irene _wasn't_ trying to seduce her. Sex was Irene's job, after all, and Irene used it as a weapon, a way to get what she wanted. It wasn't emotion for her. So maybe Irene and Kate were shagging, but it didn't _mean_ anything – at least it didn't to Irene. Kate probably wanted a real relationship, not to casual sex she was getting. So when she saw Irene out with someone for non-sex reasons, Kate had probably gotten really jealous. Molly filled with pity for the poor girl. It was her and Sherlock all over again.

The revelation also helped Molly figure out Irene's motive. It couldn't be to get something out of Molly or to use her because then she'd have probably told Kate. Molly relaxed.

From there it was a pleasant dinner and an even more pleasant conversation, although it was a bit awkward when Kate slammed Molly's plate onto the table with slightly more force than necessary when Irene mentioned that she wasn't in any serious relationships at the moment. They avoided Sherlock for the most part; Molly tried to bring him up once, but Irene quickly changed the topic. Irene also managed not use too many innuendos in a clear effort to make Molly more comfortable.

Over desert and coffee (just coffee for Molly but chocolate cake for Irene, because apparently Irene never even had to watch her weight), they agreed to meet for dinner again soon. As they said goodnight, both women assumed they'd never see the other again.

* * *

About a year and a half later, Molly couldn't decide what to wear to their weekly meet-up. As usual, they were meeting on a Tuesday (which was apparently the lest sexy day of the week as Irene was least likely to get a client on a Tuesday night) and even though she had known that all week Molly had forgotten to do laundry _again_ and didn't have anything remotely cute to wear.

As she looked through her closet desperately, she reflected on how much had changed in the past year and a half (not that she was counting). Sherlock still wasn't back and they still met at Rose Café, but nearly everything else was different. Molly and Irene had, against all expectations, become best friends. They talked to each other about everything, they shared shoes (Irene shared her shoes with Molly), and Irene had mostly stopped trying to seduce her (Molly didn't think that Irene's innuendo-laden "Do you want a ride?" that she ended every dinner with really counted). Molly wished she hadn't . . . whatever. It was better not to think about it.

"If only I were braver," Molly said to Toby as he twisted between her legs. He just meowed and Molly sighed, turning back to her closet.

Molly found a particularly boring blue dress - which would definitely not impress Irene – and decided it would have to do. After spending far too long on her makeup and walking through the cold evening in a sort of half jog that got her several funny looks, Molly arrived at Rose Café later than Irene for the first time.

"Didn't I just give you three dresses?" Irene demanded as Molly slid into their usual booth. Her food was already on the table. There were definitely perks to having a best friend who controlled the serving staff and cook of an entire café. Irene cocked an eyebrow at Molly.

Molly blushed, mostly from embarrassment, as she mumbled, "They're all dirty, sorry."

"We'll have to take you shopping," Irene said, sounding amused.

Molly made a non-committal noise and dug into her salad. It had been a stressful day and shopping was _not_ a relaxing subject – when Irene brought it up.

"How did it go with my banker?" Irene asked, once again bringing up a stressful topic: her love life. Although Irene had set her up with all the suitable people she knew, Molly had only gone on second dates with three: two women and a man. Two of them hadn't lasted for more than three weeks each and the third had lasted only until they had made plans for a movie date on a Tuesday night and Molly had realized she'd rather have dinner with Irene tan sit through a bunch of movies. Needless to say, her love life was yet another thing that made Moly feel inferior. "Well?" Irene snapped Molly put of it.

"Okay," Molly mumbled between bites of salad.

Irene leaned forward, her dress slipping to show a bit of cleavage. "Tell me more."

"It went horribly. Don't set me up with a conman again." Irene didn't look disappointed in the least. She even changed the subject to less stressful things instead of pressing for details as she usually did.

They had a fairly normal dinner, although Kate wasn't there (Molly asked, but Irene didn't tell her why. She assumed they had broken up for good, and tried to tell herself that it changed nothing). But when Irene asked, "Do you want a ride?" Molly said yes, thanks to the bitter cold outside. Besides, she admitted to herself, she _did_ want a ride, in every sense of the word. It was a relief to admit it even to herself.

Irene smiled her predatory smile. "Are you sure?" She asked as she put on her sleek winter coat.

Although Molly was anything but sure, the part of her that wanted to be brave smiled and said, "I'm sure." The rest of her was duly horrified.

Irene's smirk widened, but she just tucked Molly's hand into the crux of her elbow and ushered her out without teasing her (and, as usual, without paying). A small black car was waiting and Irene pulled Molly into the backseat.

"We'll go to my flat for a drink first?" Irene asked as the car sped away. It wasn't so much a question as a statement masquerading as a question.

But Molly saw no reason to turn Irene down. "Sure."

"Good, we're close." And they were close. It only took a couple minutes of careful (illegal) maneuvering by the driver before they pulled up on a mostly deserted street.

After leaving the car, they rushed into the relative warmth of the building. It wasn't as luxurious as Molly had expected, but of course Irene was, technically, still in hiding.

"I've got the top floor," Irene smiled. The elevator was small but quick, so Molly didn't have to ignore the press of Irene's spectacular curves against her side for long.

"Nice place," Molly said as she walked in and struggled with her coat. Her breath caught when Irene helped her get it off, but she was soon distracted by the apartment. Irene moved a lot, so Molly hadn't been in one of her former homes recently.

Irene waved at a sofa as she sailed into the kitchen. "Make yourself at home, little mouse. I'm getting drinks." Irene, much to Molly's annoyance, had never really stopped calling her little mouse. "So tell me, why didn't you like the banker?" She brought back wine and poured two glasses as Molly sighed. This was more like the Irene Molly knew.

"The conman. I didn't like the _conman_."

Irene dismissed that with a wave of her hand. "I do illegal things. That's not what bothers you. Remember, I still know what you like."

Molly tried not to think about what she liked. "He's rude. He ordered for me."

"I order for you all the time. Don't be dull, tell me why."

"But you're . . . you, and I just don't like him." Molly wished Irene would stop using herself as an example. "Besides," added her mouth before her brain could run interference, "I fancy someone else."

This caught Irene's interest more than Molly's rejection of her choice. "Who?"

Molly blushed and muttered, "No one."

Irene was having none of that. "So I know them," she concluded. Molly didn't protest, which Irene took as a yes. She leaned closer. "Man or woman?"

Without thinking, Molly replied, "Woman."

There was a moment where Molly wanted to slap herself, but she waited for Irene to figure it out. She waited for Irene to say the only woman they both knew that Molly hadn't rejected was Irene herself, but that never came.

Instead, when realization dawned, Irene just said quietly, "I'm never going to stop my job. And I'm still a criminal. I'm not the sort you like." Molly ignored the bitterness in Irene's voice, concentrating on how Irene chose such a nice way of letting her down, and how that made her fancy Irene even more.

But still she answered, "My type of man has always been dangerous. Why shouldn't my type of woman be the same?"

"It wouldn't work."

"I know." Molly got up to go, avoiding Irene's gaze. She had _known_ this was going to happen, but for some reason she had hoped that . . . she wasn't sure what she had hoped. She fought tears as she pulled on her coat.

As Molly reached the door, Irene called out, "Wait!"

Molly paused, but didn't turn around. She didn't want Irene to see her crying. "Yes?"

She heard the click-clack of Irene's heels on the tile and felt hope again – that horrible, horrible hope she couldn't suppress no matter how hard she tried. "Yes?" She repeated, a little bit less shakily.

"I don't care." Irene was standing close behind her, so close that Molly could feel her breath on the back of her neck. But she still couldn't bring herself to turn around.

Heart beating widely, Molly asked, "Don't care about what?"

"Don't pretend to be stupid. You know I don't like that."

Molly flushed. "Well, why don't you care?"

Irene paused, considering. She hadn't given it much thought. "You're more interesting than Sherlock himself."

Molly shifted a little so that Irene could some of her cheek and the mascara that had run because of her tears. Irene wanted to wipe off the tears, but she resisted. "Me? More interesting than Sherlock? I'm the little mouse, remember?" Molly squeaked.

"Not in the same ways, obviously. You hide it behind mousiness and politeness. But I have never met anyone who could stand up to me but you. That's . . . sexy."

Molly paused to think, but quickly decided to take this at face value. "So where does that leave us?" she asked as she finally turned to face Irene.

"It leaves us somewhere where we can take off your coat and that hideous dress." Irene took half a step closer, and reached to help take off Molly's coat. But Molly backed away until she hit the door.

"That's not what I meant," she whispered, looking at the ground.

"I know what you meant. Now let me –"

"I don't want to have sex with you, Irene!" Molly slapped a hand over her mouth and turned bright red. After a moment, though, she peeled her hand off and continued, "I, err, do. But, umm, I rather liked being your friend, and if that's what it comes down to, I'd rather be your friend than your . . . um, lover."

"Molly, little mouse, I am the best in the world at figuring out what people want. I know that you'd want something more than sex. You aren't a job. Do you also expect me to charge you my hourly rate?"

Molly melted a little and started shrugging off her coat. "I suppose not," she murmured.

"Good." Suddenly Irene seemed to be standing even closer as she helped Molly get her coat off. Molly sighed almost inaudibly.

"What is it?" Irene asked, throwing the coat at the rack.

"This sort of thing never happens to me," Molly said, face scrunching up in worry.

Irene leaned in and grazed Molly's earlobe with her teeth. "It's happening." Molly shivered a little.

"You know I don't just want sex, right?" Irene was nibbling just below Molly's ear and it was hard for her to concentrate.

Irene undid Molly's ponytail. "We'll have a long time to sort that out after, mouse." Molly finally relented and allowed herself to be led into Irene's bedroom.

* * *

**Well, that's that! Thanks to everyone who reviewed or followed, I love you forever. If anyone would like to beta me (please please please) message me on this or on tumblr (timespaceandabluebox . tumblr . com). I would sell you my soul. My next stories will be an Avengers high school AU and an actually plotty story of how and why Sherlock comes back, if you're interested.**

**This story was going to be longer, but I thought it was already boring enough, so I cut quite a bit out. Also, if you're wondering about Rose Café and why Kate works there, I have a wonderful head cannon about it, just ask and I'd love to tell someone. Please review; I know I need constructive criticism. **


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